Tenderness
by coolbyrne
Summary: Scully's 3a.m visit to Doggett becomes a turning point in both their lives.


TITLE: Tenderness  
AUTHOR: coolbyrne  
RATING: PG  
CATEGORY: DSR, AU (tho' isn't all DSR alternate universe?)  
SPOILERS: None. (Feb.2002)  
DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, by all means, take it.  
DISCLAIMER: CC, you only have a month or two left to hire me,   
man! They aren't my characters, but I love to mess with 'em!  
FEEDBACK: Constructive criticism/compliments gratefully   
accepted at fugitive@ihateclowns.com. Flames gleefully mocked in   
other forums.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not quite what you might expect if you've read   
my stuff, I don't think. I hope that doesn't take away from your   
enjoyment of it (that's assuming you liked my other fic. LOL!). I   
attempted two "new" things with this fic, which I've never done- put   
it in present tense, and go without dialogue.   
Thanks to D.H Lawrence for the title idea. (The original title for   
"Lady Chatterley's Lover" was "Tenderness.")   
Thanks to Ri for returning the beta favour! (I put that exclamation   
point in there just for you. LOL!)  
**  
  
'Now he would have given all he had or ever might have to hold her   
warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep.'   
  
'.. his face a little flushed and his hair ruffled, curiously warm and   
still and beautiful in the dim light of the lantern, so beautiful, she   
would never tell him how beautiful. It made her want to cling fast to   
him, to hold him, for there was a warm, half-sleepy remoteness in his   
beauty that made her want to cry out and clutch him, to have him.'  
"Lady Chatterley's Lover"-D.H Lawrence (pages 149 and 183 res.)  
  
  
***  
  
Before he even opened the door, he knew she was on the other side.   
Her loneliness had sent a minor vibration down the string that   
seemed to connect them, and he had lain awake in his bed, waiting to   
hear the gentle rapping of her knock on his door.  
  
Sure enough, he finds her standing on the other side of the big oak   
obstacle. A slight shiver from the 3 a.m. air runs through her body,   
and he steps aside to let her in. He closes the door behind her and   
helps her out of her coat, wet from the rain that nearly lulled him to   
sleep as he waited for her. She turns to him and wordlessly he draws   
her into his protective circle. Wordlessly, she allows herself to be   
drawn.  
  
There is no greeting between them, for a greeting implies a parting   
and a reconnecting, and they have never parted. There is no need for   
reconnecting, for they are always connected.  
  
How different from their day lives. Partners and lovers and never the   
'twain shall meet. It's all "Agent this" and "Agent that," their   
formalities so pressed and firm that they set his teeth on edge. In the   
quiet moments of the day, when he thinks she's unaware, he looks   
over at her and wonders how much more she can carry alone. In   
those same unaware moments, she sneaks glances at him and   
wonders how much more he can bear. Sometimes they catch each   
other, and she is always the first to look away, left to wonder what is   
in his eyes, those eyes that seem to be able to look at her, through   
her, into her.  
  
Those eyes of his. Windows to his soul, a soul she realizes she   
doesn't quite know. In the early days of this, she felt she could read   
all his inner workings in them. Desire. Anger. Fear. Compassion.   
Lust. Love. She wonders when they became so indecipherable to   
her. Was it when he realized he saw no mirror in her own? When he   
realized all that she would give him came in furtive visits in the   
middle of the night?  
  
She wants to give him more now, to finally experience the relief of   
letting go, of lasting freedom. Freedom from herself, from the life   
she has let build shackles around her heart. But she fears it is too   
late, that she has taken him down this path too long and that he shuts   
himself off when around her. A self-preservation tactic. She is well   
versed in them herself. How ironic that it is in their most vulnerable   
moments, as he holds himself above her, in her, her back arching up   
to meet him that they feel safe enough to show themselves to the   
other.  
  
She pulls back from his eternal embrace and looks up into those   
mysterious blues. She has left damp evidence of her rest on his gray   
t-shirt, against the contours of his chest.   
  
He looks down at her and shields his heart from her gaze. He brings   
his hands up from around her back and rakes them through her wet   
hair, his fingers leaving thick, deep paths through the red. When   
they reach around to meet, he grasps two handfuls and tugs her head   
backward, and meets her upturned mouth with his descending.   
  
She thinks of all the moments they spend together that this is the one   
she loves the most. This moment when he erases all the borders and   
tears down all the walls she so carefully builds up during the day and   
shows her how foolish her efforts are. This reclamation in one   
single, hungry kiss.  
  
He used to pour every emotion he could never audibly convey to her   
into this one single, hungry kiss. In the early days of this, he thought   
the very fierceness of all he felt could seep through the cracks in her   
defense. But no matter how easily he erases the borders and tears   
down the walls, there is always that one solitary door to her that   
remains closed no matter how much he knocks. It is like a Chinese   
puzzle box; so complex-looking, so daunting, yet in the end, he   
knows so deceptively simple.   
  
He knows if he could only stop feeling, to remove himself from her   
and all that she does to his heart, that he could figure it out. He is   
like that: analytical, practical, logical. But she changes that in him,   
and he can't solve her. So he forces himself to withdraw, to stop   
feeling; he tries to become like her, in the hopes of solving her. She   
thinks it's self-preservation. Maybe it is. He thinks it's just another   
form of problem solving, unaware that it only creates more problems.  
  
She holds him, always needing to touch him in some way, as if she's   
afraid he'll disappear, leave her life like so many others she's cared   
about before him. She slides her hands from around his back and   
trails them over his shoulders, down his biceps, and up to his wrists.   
With her right hand, she takes his left and steps backwards, towards   
the stairs. Once he moves near her, signaling his assurance (as he   
always does), she turns and replaces her right hand with her left.   
Walking directly in front of him, she leads him up the stairs. He lets   
her lead, as he always does and always has. After all, it was she who   
initiated this.   
  
He had been waging yet another silent war with himself that fateful   
day, as they stood at the table in the motel room, him looking over   
her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the file she wanted to share. In the   
midst of processing the information she was giving him, he found   
himself transfixed with the hollow behind her ear. Found himself   
wondering if she dabbed perfume in its little corner and found   
himself leaning in slightly in an attempt to find out. He caught   
himself as his head tilted forward, and he was angry for letting   
himself become like this; this man who lived only for the hollow   
behind the ear of a woman he could never have.  
  
She had chosen that particular moment on that particular day to turn   
her head and catch the look in his eyes. His inner war displayed   
itself in his eyes as a mixture of lust, anger, and something else.   
Something almost feral.   
  
She took him that night, and he let her take him.  
  
And that's how it has been ever since. He is never the one to knock   
on her door at 3 a.m. Not because he doesn't feel the very same ache   
of loneliness, but because he doesn't know if she'd answer the door.   
  
They reach his bedroom together. The bedside lamp gives a warm   
amber glow to the room. He strokes the middle of her back with his   
right hand and suddenly realizes the rain has soaked through her coat   
and into her clothes. He turns her around and returns her kiss before   
gently pushing her down to sit at the edge of the bed.  
  
He kneels before her and begins to unbutton her blouse. When he   
reaches her waist, he tugs the hem from her jeans and undoes the   
remaining buttons. He circles one of her wrists with his large hands   
and turns her hand over so he can undo the cuffs, then slides his   
fingers between blouse and collarbone and peels the fabric away   
from her skin until she is bereft of this garment.  
  
With his hands on her waist, he motions for her to stand up, and   
deftly undoes the button of her jeans and parts the teeth of her zipper.   
Curling strong fingers over the waistband, he makes a downward tug,   
so that the heavy denim of her jeans and the delicate silk of her   
panties join her blouse on the floor.  
  
She runs her fingers absently through his hair while he does this and   
watches him as he goes about his task with a determined devotion.   
In that moment she sees all that he has to offer and wonders why he   
offers it to her.  
  
There is emotion and care to his activity, but nothing one would   
describe as passion. He gladly does his task, not for the physical   
pleasure, but because he sees it as his job, his duty to take care of her.   
It touches him not outwardly, but inwardly. It lights warmth in him;   
not one of extinguishable, fleeting fire, but of glowing, burning   
embers.  
  
She feels this warmth in him, from him, as he kneels before her and   
rests his head against her abdomen in a form of reverence. He slides   
his hands up her thighs and reaches up to her shoulders, drawing her   
close.  
  
It is when she looks down and sees this tenderness from him that she   
realizes how bereft her life is of it. How the cold hard edges of blind   
logic and mistrust and denial have replaced all the softness in her   
life. He replenishes her loss, cups the little flame of feeling left   
inside her and makes sure it stays lit.   
  
He feels the tremor through her stomach and looks up at her, only to   
discover she is crying. His mouth opens and all that he does not say   
is written on his face. Worry. Concern. Care. He gets her to sit   
down again and brushes her hair back so that he can kiss her cheeks   
and soak up her tears with his lips. He makes quiet soothing sounds   
and brings her in closer.  
  
She wraps her arms around his neck and nuzzles the hollow behind   
his ear, her tears leaving cold wet stains on his cheek. Moments pass   
and the world carries on without them.  
  
When he is assured that she is no longer crying, he reaches around   
her and pulls the blankets of the bed back. She crawls in at his   
wordless gesture and waits for him.  
  
He stands up and strips off his material shell, the glow of the lamp   
bathing his lean body in various shades of amber and shadow. He   
senses she is looking at him, really looking at him, so gives her this   
allowance.   
  
She looks at him as if seeing him for the first time. They have shared   
countless nights of intimacy, yet he stands before her as if a stranger.   
She is puzzled at this. She recognizes the planes of his chest, the   
curve of his thighs, the squareness of his hands and fingers, the blaze   
of his eyes.  
  
It is when she gets to his eyes that she realizes what's amiss. She   
may recognize the body, but she cannot see the spirit. It was on   
display in those early days, when he thought that if only he gave it,   
she would take it. But he quickly realized she wouldn't take it,   
would only leave it tattered and torn. So he never offered again.   
And now she is sorry she would never get the chance to see it.  
  
She reaches out her hand, in sorrow and invitation, and he slides into   
bed with her, covering her body with his.   
  
He is always amazed at how his hard angular body fits together with   
her soft curves. As if they were the proper fitting pieces to a puzzle.   
He kisses her lips, her throat, the valley between her breasts. He   
wants to make it last, to draw it out, savour it. He knows before   
long, she will leave the warmth of his bed, of his arms, of his heart   
and return to the shadows of her life, leaving him vacant and cold.  
  
He lowers his head farther, but she will have none of it. She wants it   
to linger as well, but there is an urgency in her tonight, a longing for   
him that she can no longer bear. She reaches between their bodies   
and guides him into her.  
  
He echoes her moan with his deep rumbling baritone and closes his   
eyes in an attempt to burn this moment in his memory. He knows   
it's futile, to try and equate an image with the intensity of this instant,   
but he needs it, needs to remember it.   
  
She reaches up and cups his face in her hands, waiting for his eyes to   
open. He looks down and thinks he has caught a glimpse of   
something.. something from her. Her eyes are open and pin him in   
place. It is the upward thrust of her hips that break him from his   
thoughts and continue this primal dance they began so many months   
ago.  
  
He holds himself up with rigid forearms and slowly pushes   
downward, gauging the reaction of her body, her mouth, her eyes.   
She keeps them open, hands still holding his face. Her mouth opens   
in response to his hips meeting hers, but she keeps her eyes on his   
despite the urge to close them and spiral off into her own ecstasy.   
Not tonight. Tonight she will share this with him.  
  
He senses a difference in her, but does not know what it is for   
certain. Soon, it doesn't matter, as thought gives way to feeling, and   
his slow movements increase to furious thrusts, their pubic bones   
colliding and retreating, colliding and retreating. Still, she holds him,   
even as they race towards a glorious end.   
  
It is at the narrow edge of this cliff, before they fall together, that the   
last visages of their defenses crumble and for the first time, he sees it   
in her eyes. Something that he feels has no discernible word to   
describe it, but he feels it in his heart. In the moment of release, he   
lets his soul reveal itself in his eyes, and for the first time, he sees a   
mirror in her own.   
  
When hearts and breathing and thinking return to normal, he shifts so   
that he is off of her, but covers her with a heavy leg and a gentle arm.   
He waits for the inevitable moment when she slides out of bed and   
out of his view, leaving nothing behind but her scent and her   
memory. Uncertainty has always stopped him from asking her to   
stay and she has certainly never offered. He has long given up   
expecting this night or that encounter to be any different than the   
ones before and the ones to come. And yet, there IS something   
different, he's sure of it.  
  
She turns her back and molds herself into him, not wanting to leave   
this night. She is tired of leaving, tired of slipping out of the warmth   
of his bed, his arms, his heart. His tenderness. But it is a cycle of   
her own making, and she doesn't know how to fix it.   
  
It is so quiet. She can hear his breathing and the gentle tick tick of   
the grandfather clock downstairs. A reminder of time and the   
passing of it. How much time has she let slip away without a thought   
to accounting for it? How many games of "what if" has she played   
in her head as she lay alone in her bed at night? How many more   
will she play?  
  
She doesn't want to leave, but she has long set the rules in stone.   
She squeezes the hand of the one man who could break them, before   
she slips her legs out from under his and sits on the edge of the bed.   
There is a grip on her heart that threatens to bring tears to her eyes   
once again, the feel of the string between them being pulled taut.  
  
He has not let go of her hand, holding it by the tips of her fingers,   
firm enough to make her stop, but tender enough to let her go, if she   
wants to. She doesn't want to.  
  
His quiet rumble breaks the silence.  
  
"Stay."  
  
  
  
  
  
-end 


End file.
